Page 3 of Bonds and Beasts

Adison

Stay in the west wing? I think desperately, but all that comes out is a whine. Maybe it's a tour? Sometimes I was forbidden from visiting the rest of the manor when tours were given, relegated to the west wing. If anyone asked, they were simply told the wing was under construction.

Mr. Clocks frowns deeply. He doesn't like it when my omega vocalizes. He believes I should speak or remain quiet, but I can't speak. His silver-gray hair is smoothed and gelled into perfection, as is his mustache. His tailored suits are always pristine and fitted to his slender frame. He says the estate manager needs to appear perfect.

Mr. Clocks stands near a large picture window in my room as I curl at the center of my king-sized bed, trying to parse what he's telling me. My thoughts feel sluggish as always. Slow. He says it's part of my disorder.

"We're renting the main house for the next few weeks,” he says.

Pressure clamps down on my chest and my hands begin to shake. I press them between my knees to cover the movement. Humiliation burns up my throat. I can't have people here. No one can ever be around me.

"Our guests will be informed that the west wing is off limits. Construction. You know the usual story when there are visitors or inspections. They won't even know you're here." His voice is smooth as the sharpened edge of a knife. He's tall and intimidating for a beta.

I try so hard to keep the keening growl down. My omega is not a fan of Mr. Clocks, no matter how many times I tell her that he's helping us.

"Stop that," he snaps. "The walls of this wing are still scent-proof. Everything will be fine so long as you stay where you're supposed to." His sharp eyes meet mine. I cringe. Does he know about my secret garden outings? Surely not, or he would have sealed up that passageway and door.

"They arrive in the next hour. So remember," he says as he strides across the red carpeted floor and takes my chin in his cold bony fingers, forcing me to look up at him. It takes everything in me not to recoil. "Not a sound. They're not to know you're here." I nod into his hand and he blessedly lets go and leaves, pulling the tall double mahogany doors shut without another word.

The moment he's gone I collapse inward. It's not a big explosion of movement, just a hunch of the spine, a curling inward of my shoulders.

People staying? Overnight? There's no way I can do it. There's no way they won't hear me. And if they hear me, they might get close enough to scent me. I look to the white door at the far end of my room, slightly cracked. If I can stay in my bed, maybe my omega will be satisfied.

Maybe...

Easton

The manor house is something straight out of one of our gothic movies. Bello would play the vampire and Dean and I would play the swashbuckling hero alphas who got the omega. Maybe by the end of the movie, the vampire would turn us all, and we'd be a pack of vampires. Something campy like that.

The manor is a red brick monstrosity ornamented by black wood windows. The sun is already setting, darkness moving over the estate as the shadows draw long from the surrounding trees. Yet not a single light is on within the place. It looks like a tomb. I can't imagine anything living happily within its walls.

"Listen, I'm all for not sleeping in the car, but I really don't want to be murdered by the Rose Red-esque ghosts you know have to be haunting the shit out of this place," Dean says, leaning close to the car window to peer up at the top turrets of the building.

"Stop being dramatic, Dean," Bello sighs in a deep tone. But for once, I'm really not sure Dean is being dramatic.

We step out of the car and Tom grabs some of our bags while we take the rest. The stone steps are covered in dead leaves freshly fallen from the trees, scraping across the cement. Large crows call from the trees and the smell of wood smoke drifts up from somewhere behind the building.

The door opens right as we reach it, and a lithe beta man stands on the other side with the most smarmy grin I've ever seen in my whole life. And I live in Hollywood.

His arms spread wide as if he means to embrace us all. His gray hair is coiffed and perfectly gelled. He looks to be in his sixties with the kind of lean physique that implies he’s never seen a carb or a drop of alcohol in his entire life. His suit is impeccable.

"If it isn't the three movie stars: the Beauty Pack. Your agent told me all about you. My name is Mr. Clocks and I’m the manager of the estate. Come, come in." He waves us through and we all step indoors. A gust of cold wind presses at our backs, pushing us the rest of the way into the creepy manor. I glimpse Larry and Tom as they begin setting up for security detail outside. Since it's been vetted by our agent, they don't need to check inside. The door closes behind us with an ominous thud.

The inside of the manor is exactly as expected. Old wood detailing and high ceilings with antique, uncomfortable-looking furniture. Like a museum. But it smells... it smells faintly of roses.

"So, your agent said you'd need to stay for a minimum of two weeks. The entire place is open to you." He begins to walk and we follow, Bello at the front, Dean in the middle, and me at the rear. Tom leaves our bags by the door and exits.

"We have the dining room," he flicks a finger at a large room with a chandelier and a table big enough for twenty, "the sitting room, the grand staircase, the library, a small ballroom, and several guest suites down this hall. The kitchens are at the back of the house. We have a cook who comes in and she will serve meals promptly at eight, twelve, and five. If you're not available, she'll save them in the fridge for you."

"Eight... in the morning?" Dean whispers. I roll my eyes. Dean would think that that's an ungodly hour of the day. I like to start my days promptly at seven.

"There are many rooms upstairs, but most are being touched up or renovated, so I suggest using three of the four to the left at the top of the stairs near the west wing," he says as he makes his way up the grand staircase. When we reach the top, there's a landing with halls branching off in three directions: two on each side and one straight ahead. Ornate wooden doors line the halls, but at the end of the hall to the left of the staircase is one large red door.

"What's in there?" Dean asks, pointing. For a moment I catch the briefest flash of a smirk at the corner of Mr. Clocks's thin mouth. But in an instant, it's gone, and his expression has been schooled into stern vigilance. He looks like a school principal about to lay down the law about a rule we've broken.

"That is the west wing, gentlemen. It's currently under construction, so we ask only that that door remains closed. The rest of the manor is completely open to you." He pulls a ring of keys from his pocket and hands them to Bello, gives a little bow, and lets himself down the stairs.

"My number is by the phone in the sitting room if you need anything," he calls back. The door opens and closes and we're alone in an enormous house.